She tells me again. I’m your friend. The shadows they talk, but not with their mouths. I’m really just fine. Jobs here are hard to get, but I’m okay. I walk the streets and talk to them. Broken curbs and sidewalk grass. A hole in an athletic sock. It feels like a long time since I’ve been alone. My phone’s turned off, its face cracked, but that’s okay.
An argument over a kitchen sink. Manicured nails and a grey sweater. She talks about the river trip long ago, how she lost her bathing suit. She talks of her boy, six now, pretending to be a dragon. Dimples press into her face as she laughs. She talks of grapefruit and breakfast.
I have the bed and blankets too. I have the plants, the things I grew. I’m not sure why I cannot sleep. I’m not sure why. Never quiet, they talk to me. I turn the TV on to sleep. The shadows gesture and I walk. I talk about things that don’t matter much. The president and a lost button. I don’t speak to her.
New paint and an old garage’s roof leaks. Tar paper grit against my hand. A broken-down Chevy and a pile of dirty plates. She’s here again. I wash my hands. The shadows hang like cobwebs in the corner. They creep closer to smell my breath. I grab at them, skin beneath my nails.
Brooke Rajcich grew up in the Pacific Northwest. She writes short fiction and nonfiction.